


kuwata kind of dies, too, but in a different way

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: weird bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2019-02-11 15:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12938136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka





	kuwata kind of dies, too, but in a different way

It's the stranger who holds the door; it's the  _oh, you only have one item? go ahead of me;_ it's the jumper cables that come just before the snowfall begins.

"So, uh...Naegi's not home?"

And they realize, the glass that splits their worlds rests all too thick, blood types unaligned and organs failing. Mismatched maladroit mouths birthed through the hard labor of mutual friendships with nowhere to go. It's the stranger who holds the door from half mile away,  _oh, actually, my husband is coming with the whole cart,_ the Buick's just too goddamn stubborn and gloves got left at home.

"No."

There's a tea cup set to her saucer on the counter top when he enters by way of spare key, and there's been too many  _yes it's an emergency I swear!_ s to count by this point. Steam wisps from the kettle's salivating maw. The television in the sitting room rests dormant, the only sitting at all being taken by herself in the empty palace of a kitchen.

Kuwata's hands stay stuffed in each pocket to his jeans. Still he dons the dark polo from his last drive-thru shift, carries as well the stark flavor of coffee lingering. And it's stupid to feel underdressed in someone's kitchen, his best friend's kitchen where he spends more time with his head tucked in the fridge than with any foxy broad that steps his way. But it's weird and he's weird and he's  _stupid,_ because his best friend isn't here, just his best friend's best friend (which is peculiar in itself, though he refrains from noting it on the grounds that it isn't his house nor his attached-at-the-hip relationship), legs crossed at the counter stool from a knee length pencil skirt, jacket sharp as the eyes that pin him into good posture. More than the condensating kettle does he sweat beneath that look.

"Oh, that's cool." It is? That's news to him. "D'you know when he'll be back?"

Lashes brush once her cheekbones, offer him a millisecond's relief. "He went to a concert with his sister, so I would expect him sometime next week."

Next w-?  _Okay, okay, a joke!_ She's made a joke. That's good. An ice breaker. Though just perhaps, his knees play way to frigidity now in their short buckle. He catches himself in time to bark up a laugh.

He hadn't planned anything further; she hadn't cracked the slightest grin.

"...Alright, uh-"  _Leon, you horrible, handsome fool- think!_ "Togami go with 'em, or..?"

It only makes sense. The house to their knives through the ribs does bear that name upon its title. She- and her name, her name's  _Kyouko,_ he's heard so many sweet times from those sweet lips that dare never acidity. Though goad he not the world in such a way as to lilt so. To him she's just Kirigiri, and hardly even that. Very nearly does he feel the red spot of perfect aim appearing betwixt his eyes to even spill the syllables. But her name means naught to this situation, one in which she's answering his question, settled and cool as the cream atop a pudding pie. "I believe he's upstairs."

"Ah." Now...what? What he had intended to gain through such an inquiry, he hasn't the slightest nod. He hates that he dines now under such intensity. A thousand sins could not render the ever winsome Kuwata Leon silent,  _mankind_ _quakes in his mighty presence!_ Men rush to bow at his feet, panties drop every which way! He was a God in a past life, that Kuwata Leon.

...It's just that Kirigiri Kyouko might be one in this life, so he decides playing with the stud on his tongue is more fun than holding a conversation. Togami's home, she'd told him, more than likely up to the armpits in relaxation without his favorite two annoyances around to drive him balding. But calling him a prick's not strong enough narration, so he really thinks he'd rather spend time fearing for his life than wanting to take someone else's (because after the tenth or eleventh grammar correction, it  _really_ starts too great on a guys' nerves). He stays put, converse flat to tile, watching her,  _observing_ the way she does what she does. They've caught a dozen meetings. though always sandwiched between them has been another to soften the shock of blows, and each time he's been none too thick to ignore her glances. He knows she's a sucker for all that forensics crap, and quite honestly, frankly, truly, he'd barf up a lung if he ever had to check the fingernails of a dead bitch for skin particles, or whatever the fresh hell it is she likes to do in her spare time. That's their issue, he thinks- they've nothing to connect over. He sees her detective work and raises her an afternoon of  _Madden_ _,_ sees her Sherlock Holmes and raises her Lynyrd Skynyrd.

Middle ground...?

But he's watching her, still, the way the leather of her fingers wrap round the tea kettle's handle, the generous tablespoon of honey kissing the brew. Cute- maybe she's a secret sweet tooth (and that could be that middle ground she shares with Naegi, who seems to always have his cheeks stuffed in ice cream or apple dumplings or  _something_ that'll push him up a jean size) that he can work off of.

"Um," a good start. "I was gonna grab Naegs to go get pancakes." And it'd be a strange notion to anyone who didn't know him and his affinity for anything able to be stacked in whipped cream, as pancakes five hours to midnight seems a loon's game. "You wanna come instead, since he lamed out?"

"No, thank you," is all she has to say, bringing the rim of her drink to a gentle kiss. He'd choke on his tongue were it not attached. It isn't as though he's  _dying_ to spend his Friday night with a girl he's talked to twice and has no intention of peeling the clothes off of after a few shooters, more so it's the principle, the breaking of barriers- or shrinking them, at the very least. That's a more reachable goal.

"C'mon, udon? Yakitori? Ramen, pizza, burgers?" Hands splay at each hip. "Anything you want, my treat. I'm jonesin' for some company."

Her head tilts the most subtle fraction, not enough to disturb those long silks he's very secretly been dying to touch this whole time. But she tilts, she stares, she purses those taut lips of hers. She doesn't look a lick like any doll he's ever gone for, not the short and skinny low-standards-when-they're-drunk-enough type. Perhaps that's his issue in its entirety; the only girls he manages to get along with end up in his bed an hour later and in a cab the next. Kirigiri Kyouko is not his land to claim, not his moon to stick his flag into, the crudeness he so loves to spill. Neither is she the lovely little sister he spoils only in noogies and headlocks, much as the dollfaced miniskirted Naegi is to him. He decides there needs to exist more than just the two subcategories of women. Kirigiri Kyouko is not  _girls I'd bang_ nor  _girls I wouldn't,_  but entirely her own. A third manila folder goes to the file cabinet of his mind: _anomalies._

(He thinks he's charming, he so very much does).

"Sukiyabashi Jiro," draws him from his own head. "You'll have to make a reservation, though. And rent a suit."

Powder blue flashes in tight blinks. He fiddles with lint of his pockets, shrugs into the most sheeply of steel. "Final offer: Steak 'n Shake, but I can't afford the steak."

So very faintly does he swear he catches the softness in her eyes.

"I'll get my shoes, then."

Half a mile turns half a meter, one cart turns one item, snowfall turns sunshine.


End file.
